


Dear Mike,

by PouringRain



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M, bennoda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-12-23 23:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PouringRain/pseuds/PouringRain
Summary: [Bennoda] "I love you. Do you remember how we first met? We were eighteen years old. And even back then, I knew you were special." Chester writes letters to his one true love, trying to deal with what is happening to him.





	1. 11/09/12

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys :)  
> I wrote this story a looong time ago. I just re-read it and am thinking that I might continue it, even though it was originally supposed to be a 2-part-story.  
> What do you think?
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, let me know ♥

11/09/12  
I love you.  
Do you remember how we first met? We were eighteen years old. And even back then, I knew you were special.  
We had been friends for years when I finally admitted to myself that I loved you.  
You were so lively, so full of energy, you always helped me keep going when my mind was clouded by the depression I developed way too early, when I was unable to deal with another blow that tore my life apart.  
Do you remember the dark winter day I told you about my past? How to this day, you are the only one that knows about everything that happened?  
You helped me face the past that caused me terrible nightmares. The past that had me waking up screaming in your arms, night after night. You helped me fight the demons that had been twisting my mind for years.

You gave me hope.  
And I would have never thought that I would outlive you.  
Cancer! That's what the doctors told us. An enormous tumor in your brain. Almost inoperable.  
The chance of surviving the surgery that would ensure us another ten to twenty years? 50 percent.  
The chance of surviving without the surgery? Zero. They gave you another two weeks, maybe three.

You wanted to go home. You wanted to spend your last weeks, days, and hours with your family, your friends, with me.  
But I convinced you to stay in the hospital. I wanted that surgery. I wanted to seize every opportunity I had to save you. That's what I told you. The selfish truth is that I can't live without you.  
I couldn't bear the thought of coming home to a dark, cold apartment. Without you, It wouldn't be home anymore. Home is where you are, and where would I go if you were gone? 

Mostly, I slept at the hospital, in the chair next to your bed. Even if I went home after you fell asleep at night, I was back by your side before you had even woken up. Most of the time you didn't even know I was gone.  
I tried to stay strong the whole time. For you, for us.  
Every time I walked into your room, I banned all my worries, that excruciating and petrifying fear of losing you from my mind and put a smile on my face.  
Unlike me, you didn't seem to be scared. Maybe the situation was too unreal to grasp. Maybe you had already accepted your fate.  
And maybe, just maybe, you had never been scared of dying.

So I smiled. Enjoyed every minute I spent with you, every second you had left.  
One late night - I was sitting by your side, watching you sleep - a nurse came and tried to convince me to go home and catch up on sleep.  
“He is sleeping, he can't even talk to you right now”, she said. I shrugged and told her that seeing you breathe was all I needed.  
She looked at me sympathetically, and I thought I saw tears glistening in her eyes. 

After that incident the nurses left me alone. They let me sit up with you, day and night. Maybe they understood how precious and fragile life is, and that I couldn't miss a breath you took. Maybe they knew that I wouldn't leave, even if they tried to send me away. 

But every time after I left your room, the fear returned like a blow to my stomach.  
The worry, the grief. Sometimes I collapsed in front of your door, whimpering and sobbing.  
I always made sure you couldn't see me, couldn't hear the heart-wrenching sounds leaving my throat.

I knew you would feel guilty if you knew I was just barely holding up, barely able to keep my head above the water that was threatening to drown me.  
When I had those breakdowns, nurses hurried to my side, telling me it was normal to mentally detach yourself from a critically ill person. They told me it was okay, a defense mechanism.  
But that wasn't what was happening to me.  
I don't know why, maybe because I am a goddamn masochist, but the sicker you got, the more I loved you.

 

I still remember sitting in an uncomfortable, mint green plastic chair in front of the operating room. I waited for hours, hoped and prayed.  
After seven excruciating hours, the senior consultant approached me. He didn't have to say anything. I felt it. I felt that you weren't with me anymore. That you would never come back.

They let me see you.  
You looked so peaceful, as if you were sleeping. So breathtakingly beautiful. I traced my fingers over your once mocha colored, now ashen skin; touched your lips with mine for the last time. They were still plump and soft, but cold. As cold as the shivers that ran down my spine, looking at your lifeless face.

Then the doctors returned and covered you with a plastic sheet. Like you were some croaked animal. Like you were one of many. They wanted to take you away from me.

Of course I knew that it wasn't you anymore. Just an empty shell.  
But letting your body go would mean letting you go. I couldn't do that.  
I couldn't comprehend that you wouldn't open your eyes, that you wouldn't sit up and smile at me.  
You looked like you were just dreaming...

They tried to carry you away, and I tried to stop them. I tried to make them understand that you weren't one of many. That you were special, unique.  
The doctors were friendly and gently told me they understood I was confused and shocked. They told me they could help me find a therapist.  
I tried to make them understand, Mike. I tried to explain the bond between us, but I don't think they heard me. They didn't understand that I didn't need a fucking therapist, I needed you. 

 

I have to admit I didn't help with planning your funeral. For quite some time I wasn't able to even get out of bed. Your parents did what would have been my job. It is cruel, having your own son die before you do. Their grief was indescribable. Almost as incredible as mine.  
There are still days that I can't get up.  
Days, that when I see a knife, I think about joining you.

But I know you wouldn't have wanted that. Never. You always told me to stay strong, to go on. You would have wanted me to live my life. It breaks my heart knowing that I won't be able to do that after I promised myself to fulfill all of your wishes years ago. 

I just can't. I can't do it. I can't stay strong when I lie in bed and pretend you are still lying next to me. I can't chase away the nightmares that haunt me almost every night. I can't find my way back to the surface when the thought of you pushes me underwater.  
I just can't go on without you.  
But I have to, you would have wanted it that way.

I will always love you. I think about you every day, with every breath I take. I won't allow myself to forget even an inch of your face. The feeling of your skin under my fingers. The sound of your voice. Your smile. Never.

I love you.

Chester.


	2. 12/04/12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, here's the next chapter, maybe the last? I have a few ideas but still not sure if I should continue this or if it's too depressing.   
> @Stefuh: Sorry for breaking your heart ;) 
> 
> Enjoy ♥

12/04/12

I need you, Mike. So much.  
I feel like the loneliness is draining all the energy from my body.   
And even though the heat is turned up as high as possible, I'm freezing, all alone in our apartment. 

I feel so guilty because I convinced you to have the surgery done. Otherwise you would have had time to properly say goodbye to your family. To spend time with them.  
And I took that opportunity away from you because I'm so goddamn selfish.

You could have had weeks to live! Maybe a month. Your parents could have gotten used to the idea of having to lose you. I stole this time from them. From you.

The funeral was horrible. So many people were sick with grief. So many people cried. Your mother collapsed in front of your grave. 

“Michael”, she cried over and over, and sobbed at the same time. “He was so young!”, She repeated and sank to the ground. By that time her words were almost unintelligible. “He was so young... my baby...”  
Her words are still echoing in my head. Every time I'm alone. Which I am, most of the time.

Sometimes Dave and Rob come over. They talk to me, try to get me to eat. They are incredible, Mike. They too lost one of their closest friends, but they still look after me. They look after your mother, try to console every one. They aren't pathetic, petrified with grief.   
They say you had a good life. They say you were able to live your dream of being in a band. They do something. They try to help others deal with what happened. 

And me? I sit in our apartment and stare at the wall. I drown myself in grief and self-pity; I think about you, even though the thought of you pulls me deeper into my depression.

Rob and Dave seem to somehow be able to deal with their loss. Somehow. Maybe because they never felt the same kind of love for you that I have.   
Maybe I'm just weak. Too weak to be able to deal with losing you.

I can't eat; I'm tired but cannot sleep, can't stop thinking about you.   
Dave says he is worried about me.  
He offered to let me stay at his house, but I refused. I can't stand more than a short visit a week. People. Company. When you are the only one I want to be with. 

Mike, I can't do it without you.  
I always think about your last days. One time, you cupped my face in your hands and whispered that you love me, that I'll need to carry on when it's time for you to leave me. I pushed that thought aside and told you that you'd make it, that you don't have to worry. 

When I asked you if you had one last wish, your eyes connected with mine, gorgeous, chocolate brown hues boring into my soul... you leaned closer and whispered that you wanted to feel me one last time.   
It was breathtaking, and even after you fell asleep I still held you, watched you sleep.  
My tears dripped onto your cheek and slowly ran down your neck. You looked mesmerizing in the morning light. Happy, while you slept.  
I think I never loved you as much as in that moment.

And now... you're gone. I will never hold you again, never be able to cuddle up to your strong body. Will never be able to kiss you again, to stroke you, to look into your sparkling eyes. Never hear that contagious laugh again, talk to you. I will never be able to tell you I love you again. I can't.   
The thought of not being able to spend time with you anymore kills me.

Can you die because of a broken heart?   
I wish I could.

 

Chester.


	3. 03/10/18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a while, but here's the next chapter. This story is really therapeutic for me, and I hope it's not too dark.  
> Reviews are greatly appreciated ♥

03/10/18

Mike, 

Today is a bad day.  
I'm angry today. Not at you, of course. You never did anything wrong.

No, I'm angry at the world.  
Haven't I been through enough?   
Shit parents, being fucking molested as a kid, the drugs, the depression. I know what it's like to be in the dirt.   
Before I met you, I thought my life was worthless.  
That I was worthless.  
A worthless piece of shit that deserved everything that was happening to him. 

There were times that I hated myself. And sometimes I still do. 

You were the first person that ever made me feel special, that made me feel important.   
The way you admired me and my voice so openly gave me hope.   
Hope that someday there could be someone that loves me despite my many flaws.   
Despite my mood swings, my crass personality, and despite my constant battle with addiction.

Back then, I would never have dreamed that that person would turn out to be you. 

I didn't trust our friendship at first. All the friends I had ever had eventually bailed on me – usually right after they had gotten whatever it was they wanted from me. Mostly drugs or sex. Or when they noticed how much of a wreck I was.  
I couldn't comprehend why you stuck with me.   
Of course, we were in the same band. But you didn't have to do what you did. The others didn't. 

Rob didn't sit on the bathroom floor next to me, running his hand over my back soothingly for hours every time I gave in to the temptation of the minibar in my hotel room.

Dave didn't lecture me when he'd discover another stash of weed, but end up smoking it with me most of the time, coughing his lungs out. 

Brad didn't follow me constantly on my bad days. The days I felt like running away from it all, from myself. He didn't make sure I wasn't alone for even a second. He wouldn't pull me down onto the couch in the back of the bus wordlessly every time, putting on a stupid movie while I mostly slept, understanding that I wasn't ready to talk. 

And Joe didn't scream at me, near hysterical every time he'd find me drugged up, lying in my bunk. He wouldn't wrap me in his arms afterward, holding me while I came down from my high, telling me he'd do anything to help me. 

I put you through so much shit. Back then, I was so caught up in my own world, my own struggles, that I didn't even see how much it was hurting you, watching me destroy myself slowly.   
You told me later that some nights you hardly slept, listening to my breathing in the bunk across from you, making sure I wouldn't sneak out in the middle of the night to get high.   
How scared you were that I'd overdose – accidentally or on purpose. 

Oh Mike, you were so pure. You didn't know what it was like to be me. To feel like the scum of the earth.   
Everyone had always been proud of you – a well-adjusted middle class kid, handsome, intelligent, and so talented. Everyone always knew that you would amount to something.   
You had never felt the petrifying grip of depression, the irresistible pull of addiction. 

We were so fundamentally different.   
To you, the world was exciting, beautiful, holding so much potential and possibilities.   
To me, the world was, and still is, a terrifying place. A place filled with people like the man that stole my innocence.  
And even though you couldn't relate to what I had been through, you were the one that helped me get better.  
I was adamant that I didn't need professional help, but you somehow managed to convince me to try. You made me realize that working through my childhood trauma was crucial to my recovery. 

I remember how afraid you were of hurting me years later, after we had started to accept that our feelings toward each other weren't purely platonic.  
You were terrified that being with another man would evoke emotions long buried.   
But it didn't. Because you were never him. 

Our years together were without a doubt the happiest of my life. There were days that I allowed myself to believe that everything would be okay. That it would stay like this.  
You, me, and the band until we'd grow too old to play. 

But that's not what happened. Another glimpse of happiness, torn away right when I started feeling safe.   
Sometimes I feel like all of this is just a cruel joke. 

That's why I'm angry. That's why I told Brad not to visit today. I don't want to say something I'd regret later. 

And at the same time I feel like shit – because here I am, pitying myself, when you're the one who's gone. 

I guess I've always been the emotional one, huh? Every time I said something inappropriate in an interview, when I cursed, when we fought – that was always everyone's excuse for me. 

Chester's just an emotional person.

Sometimes I wish that were still true.  
But mostly, I welcome this numbness. It makes things easier. Takes the edge off.

Most days, I feel nothing.   
It's weird because I can still remember everything affecting me so deeply.  
I remember you telling me that I care too deeply, that I have so much empathy that it destroys me.  
I remember always hurting. For myself, for others, for the world.

Now I feel like a ghost, strangely detached from the world around me.   
I just can't feel anymore, can't hurt anymore.

I've been through too much. 

 

Thank you for everything that you were and everything that you did.

 

Love you forever,

Chester


End file.
